


At the bank

by Rain_GellerBing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, I tried to write English with a French accent, M/M, Marcus Flint is not stupid, Marcus is working at the bank, Oliver is a pouting 6-years-old when he wants, Please tell me if I forgot to tag something, and here he wants, fight me on this, without really knowing how
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 03:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13825269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rain_GellerBing/pseuds/Rain_GellerBing
Summary: His first thought as he walked into the room was I do not get paid enough to deal with this. He swore and shouted in his mind, but he kept his usual cold and detached demeanour his education as a Pure-blood wizard had taught him.





	At the bank

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt was taken from [here](http://unblockingwritersblock.tumblr.com/post/169788399993/586)
> 
> I have written two drabbles from this prompt, so expect the next one to appear soon ;)
> 
> I also want to thank my amazing beta [flint-wood](https://flint-wood.tumblr.com/) for her patience with me
> 
> Enjoy :)

His first thought as he walked into the room was  _ I do not get paid enough to deal with this _ . He swore and shouted in his mind, but he kept his usual cold and detached demeanour his education as a Pure-blood wizard had taught him. The man in front of his eyes was making it difficult, but in seven years of career at Gringott Marcus had been an exceptionally calm employee, considering his temper in school, and he didn't wanted to change that.

  
  


The reason his temperament had been different at Hogwarts though was right in front of him. Oliver Wood even had the nerve to look smug, in the way he was sprawled on one of the green chairs in Marcus' office. Marcus had to stop himself from punching the guy, and the only thing that actually helped was thinking that a punch would equal being fired, and being fired when your wealthy family hates you makes it difficult to find another job. So no punch.

  
  


Wood hadn't even bothered to look decent to go to the bank, since he was wearing blue sweatpants and a t-shirt. Marcus wondered how he even made it inside, but probably being a famous Quidditch player had his perks and that was one of them.

  
  


Marcus sat at his table after a murmured greeting, and he tried not to stare at Wood, nor at the lady who was next to him. She was dark and tall and fit, and Marcus guessed she was a Quidditch player too, even though he was sure he didn't know her – which was weird. Being disowned by his family had meant a lot of freedom, which had meant a lot of time spent on Quidditch. He had been to a lot of matches, especially since his promotion to Head of the Public Complaint Office had meant an important pay raise.

 

The woman looked at him with cold eyes, and sent a shiver running down Marcus' spine. No wonder Marcy had sent Wood and her to his office, like everyone did with 'difficult cases', a fancy couple of words meaning 'pains in the ass'. And Wood was definitely a pain in the ass by himself, and with a dangerous-looking woman...

 

Marcus was glad he had just finished his lunch break, because he was sure that if Wood and lady had come into his office before that, he would have had to forget about his sweet potato and carrots soup at the Cauldron.

 

“What is the problem?” Marcus asked, his tone colder and far less gentle than usual when dealing with the clients. He had discovered that living at Flint Manor and in the Slytherin common room had made him the perfect person for a client complain job. He looked like a good listener, but while the other person was talking he was plotting/planning what to do, as both the snakes and his parents had taught him to do.

 

The lack of greetings and pleasantries wasn't unnoticed by Wood, who looked like he wanted to start one of their usual cheerful and civil discussions, but the former Gryffindor was preceded by his companion.

 

“Vee are here, Mons- Mr. Flint, because the stupid gobelin don't want me to open account.” the woman said, with a strong French accent.

 

Something rang a bell in Marcus' mind. He had read that some team had bought a player from the Quieberon Quafflepunchers, and the fact that he didn't register right away the information was due to the fact that Puddlemere was the team in question – Marcus had learnt how to easily forget about the team while reading the newspaper because he had found out how unpleasant it was to get angry at a former rival and accidentally tear apart a newspaper. He had never seen pictures so angry at anyone. Thank Merlin photographies were silent.

 

“I'm really sorry to hear that, Miss- Mademoiselle...?” Marcus asked, inviting and trying to hide the fear the woman instilled into him with his natural charm. Some sort of charm. His professional charm, anyway. He didn't really know how it actually worked, but some custumers were really charmed by him. He hoped Miss French Quidditch would fall for it too.

 

It was either that or being eaten, Marcus thought.

 

“Janivier. Emanuelle Janivier.”

 

Marcus nodded, and then he tried to smile again. He extended his hand to shake it, and he presented himself in what he only hoped was a good enough French not to be disrespectful.

 

His parents hadn't been the best parents ever – and probably not even the worst – but they had offered to their children one of the best educations anyone could have asked for. Before going to Hogwarts, Marcus had been taught Latin, Ancient Greek, French and even some Chinese - “It's a growing economy, Marcus dear, and it will be useful for you. I don't care if writing is confusing, you'll get used to it.” – which was probably too much for a child, especially for one not so talented as Marcus, but it had been useful. Well, Latin had been useful to recall spell names. The rest had been utterly useless.

 

Up until that moment. Marcus had probably learned French better than he thought, because it turned out he was able to conduct the entire meeting in French.

 

He discovered by Mademoiselle Janivier's story and Marcy's notes that the problem was an easily solved homonymy case (there had been another Emanuelle R. Janivier, known robber, but she had died in 1672, something the goblins didn't care about), but the simplicity of the job wasn't the only thing to make him smile.

 

Wood had been annoyed the entire time – no more than 30 minutes, to be honest – because he had been completely cut off of the conversation, and Marcus had a hard time not to look too smug.

 

“What did Wood come for, anyway?” he asked once he had solved Janivier's case, genuinely smiling at her while signing the last paper.

 

“Oh, he said he would help with my anglais, because I don't speak well.” Janivier answered, smug as well. Marcus couldn't repress a chuckle.

 

“Really useful, Wood. As always.” he muttered under his breath.

 

Wood had probably been expecting a comment like that for the entire time, because he heard Marcus and answered with a “Well, still better than Malfoy.” comment.

 

Marcus was in a good mood, so he laughed at that, enjoying even more Wood's death glare.

 

*

 

Marcus didn't particularly like to work overtimes, but he ended up finishing late because of a 263 pages long new pamphlet on an upcoming regulation. Pamphlet. It was a fucking book.

 

Anyway, it was late and he knew he was the only one in the office, so he could curse and insult the book all he wanted, nobody could hear him – hopefully not even the goblins, who should have gone into their lairs already – or wherever they slept. Did goblins even sleep? How did his parents decide he should learn fucking Ancient Greek but he knew jack squat about other creatures? Scratch what was said before about his education: his parents were pretentious morons who didn't care about other life forms (that is, apart from Pure-bloods) and his upbringing lacked a lot of relevant content.

 

But it was over. The stupid pamphlet had been read, and he would tell his team about the new regulation the next day – if he still remembered something of the thousands and thousands of words he had just finished reading.

 

Marcus packed his things, got his leather jacket on and went out of the office, feeling finally free. It was too late to cook, he thought, but maybe he still had some leftover shepherd's pie in the fridge he could reheat.

 

The hallway was dark, no one was around. The bank looked slightly lonely when it was so empty, Marcus thought, right before hearing a sound.

 

Footsteps.

 

From behind.

 

He turned, and in the obscurity of the place he could still make out the shape of a man a couple feet behind him. Before he knew it his hand was on his wand and he was pointing a Lumos at the other guy, who turned out to be no one other that Oliver Wood himself.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Marcus asked, and finally Wood looked sheepish like he was supposed to do.

 

“I may or may not have stayed behind.” he murmured.

 

“The bank is closed. How the hell did you escape security? Gringott's supposed to be one of the safest places in Britain!” Marcus hissed, looking around, hoping to see a guard, a goblin, someone who could scold Wood better than he could.

 

“Well I am smart and stupid enough not to get caught.” Wood said, and Marcus saw in his eyes the old Gryffindor fire of pride in himself Wood had always shown when he had successfully done something rather dangerous.

 

Marcus rolled his eyes.

 

“Ok, I will rephrase it so that maybe you'll answer this time: why the hell are you in Gringott even if it's closed, Wood?”

 

Wood winched a bit at Marcus' harsh words, and then he muttered “I was waiting for you.”

 

Marcus rolled his eyes again. “Why is that?”

 

Oliver smiled smug. “I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink? For old time's sake?”

 

Marcus stared at him. “You accidentally come into my office, stare at me like you want to kill me for half an hour, wait for me to get out of the office and then you ask me out?”

 

Wood laughed. “Well, I actually didn't come into your office accidentally, I knew where you worked and that's why I asked Elle if I could come. And I'm not really asking you out. Or I am, if you want. Your choice.”

 

Marcus considered the proposal for a second, and only the fact that he was considering going to have a drink with Wood in a pub was a symptom of his following decision.

 

“If you want this to be a date, Wood, you have to pay.”

 

Wood snorted. “As long as we go in some cheap place.”

 

Marcus shook his head “You are a weird fellow, Wood.”

 

“Actually,” Wood barely contained his smile “I am a  _ queer _ fellow.”

 

It took all the self-control he had for Marcus not to burst laughing in the middle of the empty bank. He did snicker, though. And Wood winked at him.

 

“Come on, Wood. You are a cheap date, and that means I have to drink a lot to forget about it, and to drink a lot I have to start drinking as soon as possible.”

 

Wood laughed, and then they walked side by side to the exit.

 

“When the hell did you learn French?”

 

“Oh Merlin, Wood, do you even care?” Marcus rolled his eyes. He was doing it a lot, lately. All Wood's fault.

 

“Elle said you are really good, I was just wondering. Sorry.”

 

Wood didn't sound sorry at all for prying, but Marcus didn't comment on that. He didn't want to argue. He wanted to go to a pub and eat, rather than drink, because he was starving, and if someone else was paying, well, he was a simple guy, and he wouldn't refuse free food.

 

“Can you teach me?”

 

“Wait Wood. You're bringing me to a cheap pub for a date because you want me to teach you French?”

 

Wood laughed. “Well, I can always bring you to a fancy restaurant. I guess that being high maintenance comes from being a Flint and I should have expected that when I asked you out.”

 

“Of fucking course I am high maintenance, you can bet your skinny ass on it.”

 

“You know very well my ass is not skinny.” Wood sounded proud of his ass, and Marcus knew he should have been, so he decided not to joke about it any more. “Anyway, would you?”

 

Marcus sighed.“Let's see how this date goes, and if we don't kill each other before midnight I will think about teaching you French. Deal?”

 

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Any kind of feedback is always more than welcome.
> 
> Come to say [hi](https://writerrain.tumblr.com/) if you want :)


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